


Devotion

by nightrose



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Body Worship, Canon Era, Dom/sub Undertones, Hand & Finger Kink, Kissing, Kneeling, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightrose/pseuds/nightrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Barrière du Maine, Grantaire is given a chance to show Enjolras how he feels.</p><p>fill for a kink meme prompt: kneeling and kissing someone's hand(s) as a sign of devotion and longing</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devotion

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a kink meme fill with no actual sex in it. It could possibly be construed as having some consent issues, since they don't actually talk about any of this beforehand, but everyone is a fully willing participant. I hope you enjoy reading.

Enjolras has never paid much attention to the physical body he occupies. He is young, and fortunate that he remains fit and healthy without much effort. He is conscious of the fact that others find him attractive. It is difficult not to, careless of his own appearance though he is. He knows that his long golden hair and feminine features win stares from girls and more than a few men, and especially from Grantaire.

He’s given even less attention to that, since Grantaire is nothing more than a distraction from the cause—or so he thinks, until Grantaire meets him outside the Barrière du Maine. Enjolras can still hear the laughter of the men inside.

“Go back to your drinking,” he says, before Grantaire has time to even catch up with him.

“No, Enjolras—a moment—“

“Fine. But this is the last moment of my time you’ll get,” Enjolras says, crossing his arms across his chest.

“You misunderstand what you’ve seen, Enjolras. Not everyone communicates the way you do, all big speeches and bright words. These men drink and play dominoes—it is how they speak to each other. That is why I aked to come here, because I am much more one of them than any of your Amis. And that is why some twelve of these workers have agreed to spread your message to their own friends, and two have given me information that might lead to a stock of gunpowder of no small value.” 

Enjolras simply looks at him, judging his face. It’s hard to see, in the dim light spilling out of the pub, but then the door swings open and a clearly intoxicated man stumbles out. “R!” the stranger exclaims, clapping Grantaire heavily on the shoulder with a big hand. “What’s the place? For your man’s meeting?”

“Ask him yourself,” Grantaire says with a smile.

“Ah, the great Enjolras! We hear much about you. Grantaire says we must come hear what you have to say, that you will show us the way to a better life.”

“Does he?”

“Indeed. At first there was—not much support.”

“You all but laughed me out of the bar, Frédéric,” Grantaire says with a smile.

“But he brought us around.”

“The café Musain, at five in the evening, tomorrow,” Enjolras says. “I hope to see you there, citizen.”

The drunken man shrugs. “I think I will be, and the others as well. Grantaire was very convincing. Now. Onto that piss I was about to take.” He stumbles around the back of the building, leaving Enjorlas and Grantaire alone again.

“It seems I owe you an apology,” Enjolras says after a moment.

“Nevermind,” Grantaire says. 

Enjolras looks at this man for a moment, this short, coarse-faced man with his nose red from drink and his dark hair tangled with carelessness, his shirt ill-fitting over his fleshy stomach and stained with paint and wine, his cheeks flushed from the cold and his quiet acceptance of Enjolras’ unrelenting disdain and his warm, gentle brown eyes, and he makes up his mind. “Come, my friend. Let us get in out of the rain.”

“My room is in the other direction,” Grantaire says. “I’ll stay here for a while, though I’ll walk with you if you like.”

“I’d be pleased to have your company.”

Grantaire does not seem to know what to say to this nicety, and settles for simply walking alongside Enjolras. The light drizzle of the evening leads them to choose a brisk pace and diminished conversation, though Enjolras makes various comments about the neighborhood.

“We’re not far. Just around the bend—here.” They’ve arrived at the rooms his parents let for him. “Will you come upstairs?”

“Have you further orders for your humblest of lieutenants?”

“I want to speak with you, yes.”

Grantaire follows him wordlessly up to his flat. Enjolras closes the door and turns to face him.

“I apologize for my doubt in you, and my previous unkindness. You have done a great service to the cause today.”

“No need to apologize.”

“Still. At least accept my thanks. Is there anything I can do, in this moment, as thanks?” Enjolras hesitates, hoping he’s made his intentions clear. “Or… as your friend. A friend who hopes our acquaintance will become more intimate in the future than it has been.”

Grantaire regards him with those eyes, always so tender and gentle, always so knowing and still so kind. Sometimes Enjolras thinks the reason Grantaire enrages him so is just because of the look in his eyes, because he seems to know Enjolras a thousand times better than even his dearest friends, because he seems to see and understand him and yet sees no hope—but tonight he saw hope, even if it was only his feelings for Enjolras himself that led him that way. And so tonight, Enjolras will be close to him, will let him—

Grantaire speaks at last. “I don’t want to misinterpret anything here. I would hate to—to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“You will not.”

“I am sure you know that I did not act tonight out of a sudden spike in revolutionary fervor. The only thing I am devoted to is you, and the only thanks I would ever ask is that you give me a chance to show that devotion.”

“You may, then. If that’s what you’d like.” Enjolras is watching his face, unsure what he’ll do next. He rather expects Grantaire to lean in for a kiss.

He’s surprised when Grantaire lowers himself onto his knees. At first, Grantaire just looks up at him, judging his expression. Then he speaks. “I should thank you, Enjolras. You tolerated me for a long time when I added nothing at all to your beloved cause.”

“Tolerance is nothing to kneel before a man in thanks for.”

“It is when it seemed at times my very life depended on it. That I could look up from my place in the dirt and see you up in the sky—that is everything to me. Your hope, your dreams, your… I am unworthy to be in love with you, as you know too well.”

“That’s not—when I said… Grantaire—“ Enjolras cannot find the words. His usual eloquence has entirely deserted him.

Fortunately, Grantaire does not seem to expect a reply. He simply asks, “May I touch you?”

“As you will.” Enjolras stands there, rather uncertain what to do.

Grantaire’s rough fingers gently wrap around the wrist of Enjolras’ left hand. Enjolras is surprised, but goes with it as Grantaire carefully pulls Enjolras’ hand forward. He keeps his eyes on Grantaire’s face, watching the expression there. It’s something akin to worship, to the bliss of transcendence he saw on the face of truer believers than he when his parents made him attend church as a boy. Grantaire’s eyes are lowered, looking at Enjolras’ hand as though he doesn’t dare glance up at his face, but Enjolras can just see the brightness in his expression as he tentatively lowers his head, pressing a kiss to the back of Enjolras’ hand.

Enjolras freezes in surprise, and Grantaire immediately pulls away.

“Forgive me,” he says, his voice rough with some unidentifiable emotion. “I should not.”

“No, Grantaire. Go on.” Enjolras reaches out with his other hand, pressing his palm to Grantaire’s cheek, and Grantaire lets out a sigh of contentment as he lowers his head again, kissing each of Enjolras’ fingers in turn. His lips brush against the base of Enjolras’ long fingers, one knuckle at a time.

Grantaire’s mouth is surprisingly warm and soft. Enjolras can feel his breath as he carefully flips Enjolras’ hand over and presses a long kiss to the palm. He lifts his head slightly to look at Enjolras’ expression. Their eyes meet for a long moment. Enjolras wants to say something. He wants to tell Grantaire that he understands, that he accepts what Grantaire is offering him, but even more he wants to hear what Grantaire will say.

Grantaire brushes one more kiss against the back of Enjolras’ hand and then speaks. “Thank you, Enjolras.”

“For what?” Enjolras cards his fingers through Grantaire’s hair, and Grantaire hums with pleasure.

“For allowing me to do this. For letting me show you this. And for everything else, for letting me be near you, for everything your beautiful presence in my life has given me. My beloved. Thank you.” He kisses Enjolras’ palm again, but does not protest when Enjolras pulls his hand away. Enjolras suspects that he doesn’t have it in him to protest. Grantaire’s eyes aren’t quite meeting his. He looks—not frightened, precisely. It’s more like resignation, as though he is expecting to be pushed away and won’t be in the least surprised when it happens. 

Enjolras is still not sure what the words he ought to say are. He considers pulling Grantaire to his feet, assuring him that he need not debase himself—but no. That would be no way to thank him for this display of devotion. Instead, he lowers himself to one knee, cups Grantaire’s cheek in his hand, and presses a kiss of his own to Grantaire’s forehead. “I am honored,” he says simply, and stands, smiling down at Grantaire, still bent into his position of supplication, as though he intends to stay there for some time.

“You are? What use could you have for the devotion of such a one as me? I would give you everything I am, willingly enough, but you know as well as anyone that I am nothing.”

“Nonsense,” Enjolras says, trying to keep the sharpness out of his voice. “Grantaire, you are—what you did tonight was incredible. Both what you did for the cause, and what you did for me. What you have shown me. Never doubt again that your devotion is accepted, and fully.”

Grantaire’s uncertain expression fades, and he smiles up at Enjolras, reaching up to take his hand. 

Enjolras reaches towards him, extending the right hand, the one Grantaire hasn't yet kissed, before his face.

Grantaire is even slower and more reverent this time. He begins kissing Enjolras' fingertips, one by one. This time, though, he sneaks looks up at Enjolras' face between each kiss. He basks in the acceptance and pleasure he can see on Enjolras' face. 

He is smiling between kisses as well, and Enjolras can feel his lips curving upwards, can feel his happiness as he kisses Enjolras' hand, as his lips press against the smooth, pale skin of Enjolras' palm, as he gently, tentatively touches his mouth to the pulse point at Enjolras' wrist.

This time, though, he is not merely worshipping Enjolras, because when hesitation overcomes Grantaire, Enjolras gently turns his hand, pressing the back of his hand to Grantaire's lips with something like expectation.

Grantaire kisses it obediently. As Enjolras pulls his hand away, he favors Grantaire with a smile of genuine pleasure.


End file.
